Glitter and Gold
by uneveneyeliner
Summary: 1920's AU: Attempting to escape the trauma of war and make a literary name for himself, a witty but lonely Jace Herondale is implicated in an unfortunate incident outside Manhattan's hottest speakeasy. To avoid the wrath of the city's most notorious bootlegger, he needs to take the only other witness to hand. It's the age of silent cinema; how hard can keeping one girl quiet be?
1. Chapter 1

**_Part I: O Brave New World!_**

 ** _\- 1 –_**

 _New York City, 1922 _

Snatching in a swift breath of cutting winter air so cold that it sawed at her throat, Clary leaped backward impatiently. One misplaced step was all it took, for her weight (little though it was) to shatter the slim veneer of ice under her heel. It snapped apart and crumbled as easily as one of her mom's ginger biscuits, until her whole foot slid right into the puddle. Gasping a phrase that nice young ladies weren't supposed to know, she jerked it back, but too late.

Her shoes were long since worn through and her latest pathetic attempt to re-sole them had been peeling apart for days. Now it felt as though they weren't simply letting in water, they let in half the Hudson. Hissing out a little more of her choice vocabulary, she shook her ankle deftly; a frustrated, feline gesture that sent dark splatters of rain water shivering away from her foot but didn't do anything for her already sodden stockings.

It was her own fault, she should have been looking where she was going. Typically, her mind hadn't been in the present, but where it had been for days, ever since she had found the note and first hatched this crazy plan. On her destination.

Ironically, tauntingly, as the trembling, indignant ripples she'd caused settled the black surface sent the upside-down vision of that destination winking jovially up at her once more. Lifting her head past the misty gusts of her nervous breaths spiralling out and disappearing into the dark, she looked at it properly.

The street itself didn't look anything spectacular. It looked like any other warehouse on the river banks: slumping corrugated roof, austere chipped brickwork darkened by years of rain and mud, not to mention towering rows of boarded up windows, many missing glass thanks to local kids or wretched weather. Far away from the amber, artificial glare of streetlights (none nearby were working) it almost blended into the rows of other, identical abandoned, decrepit buildings. Almost.

Ingenious, really. No one would spare this place a second glance, not unless they knew otherwise. It looked- to the ignorant eye- like exactly what it purported to be. Largely because by day it was just an abandoned storehouse in a part of town that had seen better days. But right now, in the freezing dark, if Clary held her breath, strained her ears and concentrated a little in the right spots, she could see the truth. Initially, another brutal, frigid blast of wind struck her already painfully numb face and sent an empty, lonely green bottle skittering loudly across the road toward her. When the echoing rattle of that finally stopped and the lost vessel halted by Clary's soaking foot, other sounds were detectable.

A burst of laughter. The muffled rumble of voices, the patterned tramp and tumble of feet. The delightful clink of glasses. And finally, strongest of all, winding its way around all those other sounds and sustaining them, the unmistakable swift, swaggering, jauntily careless swell and cry of Jazz, the sort that tugged at her body, loosening her limbs and demanded she make them move.

By peeling apart the exterior, careful deceit she caught a glimpse of what she wanted to see more than anything. In the uppermost levels, behind the blocking boards… the covert glow of lights.

Huddled across the street in the coal-black dark, with every muscle seized up and bunched together against the cold so bad it felt as though her bones were breaking apart inside her, in a wind so harsh she could have sworn it bruised her, Clary let a smile peek out. At last.

This place was exclusive and it had taken forever for her to pry from people she wasn't supposed to know, let alone talk to, the location of New York's best, worst kept secret. Everyone knew Pandemonium, anyone who was anybody had been. Or people who wanted to be somebody, like the giddy, nervous girl in the thickest shadows with drenched feet, an old-fashioned hat pulled down low and her hands thrust deep into the holey pockets of her only coat.

Jeez, if her mother knew she were here she'd have a fit. Thankfully she didn't and should all go to plan she wouldn't. In fact, worst case scenario, she never would know and best… well by the time she found out it would be too late to stop anything.

Clary sucked in another breath to steady and steel herself, chancing a look upwards. The night sky was thick with clouds, all of them weightily promising more rain to come. There wasn't a single star in sight. Clary chose to disregard that as a bad omen and believe instead that it was the heavens way of urging her to go inside and seek out another kind of star.

It certainly felt she were on the cusp of something. To her naïve mind this really could be the first and last time she would have to live as an outsider looking in- the place really did call to her. She swayed on the grim grey of the sooty pavement and her whole body leaned forward, into the beckoning sound, the beckoning world. She had guessed that this moment, perched on the edge of the right side of the street that felt to her so wrong, was a pivotal one. There was nothing stopping her from scurrying back home, and there ought to have been plenty stopping her from crossing the inky gash of a bare road. But she was helpless really, against the allure. If the promise was enough to lure her astray what she saw out the inside certainly wasn't about to dissuade her.

Later she would revise her assumption. Standing in the dark for the last time had not felt like that cataclysmic moment after all, it simply felt the pretext to one. And it had been. Just not in the way she had expected.

The excited, barely trepid girl thought she was about to lose an innocence she didn't believe she really possessed any more, street smart and forward-thinking member of the modern as she was. She had thought she knew she was about to enter the bad, sure, the technically _criminal_ , but also the hidden, dazzling underside of the greatest city in the world.

Clary Fray was ready to taste the magical, the mythical and the truth from all the stories she had heard. That girl had no idea what the truth of this world looked like, she would also think later. But, God help her, she was about to find out.

-x.x.x.x.x.x-

* * *

Jace snubbed his cigarette downwards into the ashtray, watching the stunted white form buckle and fold downwards into itself, snout first. Malcontentedly, he shuffled it against the bottom of the tray, watching the ash collapse around it, like snow ploughed off a wall. Accepting unhappily that he had failed to quash his boredom with the cigarette he released it altogether. So he puffed out the last swathe of smoke and turned to face his unwanted guest.

He was convinced, in fact he was in no way uncertain, that he had enjoyed merrier funerals than this night in Jonathan Morgenstern's company. He also suspected that the feeling was mutual, given the way in which his companion mirrored that unshakeable boredom by twirling his cigarette holder between his long, fingers and stared blankly over the railing and down onto the dancefloor.

Pandemonium, the city's classiest speakeasy- apparently, such a thing existed- was built on levels.

The bottom, which had once been some kind of shop floor, had the widest unencumbered space, so it became the dancefloor.

The stage lay in the very centre and upon it a line of sparkling, scantily attired girls spun and kicked and twirled in perfect, rapid fire formation. It was ringed by the band, the brass of their instruments catching the lighting and shooting off sparks. The rest of the space was taken up by other dancers; the paying couples who sought to Charleston or Lindy Hop into the wee hours.

The rest of the establishment was split onto levels, the soaring walls of the former warehouse ringed by railings, which were crowded in turn by tables, all of them filled with the customers who would rather drink the night away, like Jace. The bar was on the bottom as well, facing the back wall and surrounded by crates, right over at trap door so that the liquor could be quickly and efficiently hidden or removed in case of a raid.

The levels ranged here as they did at the opera. The lower levels closest to the stage were the best, for the highest payers. The uppermost and the few tables clustered together at the far end of the dancefloor were for the hoi polloi. And even they were paying handsomely enough for their entry and booze. For esteemed customers, however, again like Jace or, more accurately, the young Mr Morgenstern, there was no need to traipse all the way down there every time one wanted a top up. For that there were lithe girls in tight, dark dresses, who darted up and down the rusty steps with the ease only practise and pressure could provide, bearing trays of drinks, cigarettes, nuts and so on.

In the past year Jace had seen plenty of speakeasies, but he had to concede this one held as much charm as one of its kind was likely to. He had been expecting grimy, under the table kind of establishments, and he had encountered one or two of that ilk. But this one was definitely his favourite.

Pandemonium had mustered together just enough of its original, forgotten purpose with the still rusty stairs and railings, the visible strips of flecked brickwork walls and the huge boxes that held the prohibited nectar of the gods which could be easily shut up and pushed back under the floorboards. Somehow it also held a flair of grandeur, with the sweeping velvet curtains that covered the windows to smother draughts and stifle untoward sounds, and the thick carpets intermittently adorning the sagging wooden floors that ranged from turkey to fur. A panache only accentuated by the brightly coloured jars which held the table lights and of course the glistening black chandelier hanging gaudily from the ceiling. Or the fact that the coppery, smudged railings were also ringed with pearls, or faux ivy, or silk ribbons. The whole place had no collective theme, it opted instead to blend several things that should not mix in an oddly effective way. It twisted what should have been tasteless (again, a bleeding chandelier sporting real, live candles) into something that smacked off elegance. The garish, the mundane, it all melted to one in this glorious, glittering crucible.

Poet that he longed to be, Jace could not but nod at the cleverness of the paradox. Warehouse, opera, manor house, all wound into one. Nothing here was what it seemed, the wasted shell hiding a pearl. None of it should belong- this place should not exist. And thus it became exactly the sort of place that brought people back again and again, for it always gave them whatever they thought they wanted. A true escape, a secret oasis, a sense that the impossible could and did exist.

Just the right, tantalising amount of Pandemonium. A chaos that was crucially controlled. Only just.

Jace had been here several times, yet tonight Pandemonium didn't hold the lustre or appeal it had previously. Which was ironic, since these were the best seats he had ever had. And someone else was paying for the drinks.

Something had him on edge all night, some inexplicable sense of urgent discomfort hooked in his gut that had stopped him from enjoying the fancy dinner Morgenstern had also footed the bill for. He had hoped that once they got to the club and he'd indulged in several glasses of scotch this paranoia would abate, but as the hours trickled by it only intensified. Admittedly, being alone with Jonathan was never destined to be fun no matter the venue or occasion, but knowing that couldn't stop Jace shooting wistful glances at the chair Alec had vacated. His friend had excused himself what felt like years ago. He was needed backstage, with his sister.

And in his absence, keeping their third party amused fell to Jace. A task at which he was apparently failing miserably. Really, he hadn't needed to come tonight. Truthfully, he hadn't been invited. But he had been lounging in the Lightwoods day room that afternoon, flipping through the time-yellowed pages of a first edition Jude the Obscure (one that had evaded the burnings!) pilfered from his cousin's library and listening to Izzy ramble and fret about her big night. Somehow he'd ended up promising his presence when she made her grand debut. Which had led to a red faced, disgruntled Alec cursing that he'd mixed up the dates and he was supposed to be going to dinner with Jonathan Morgenstern and he couldn't very well cancel plans with Jonathan goddamn _Morgenstern._ After a small tantrum and Jace's best wheedling it had been decided that after what was sure to be a dull but extravagant meal of food so daringly new-fangled that how to physically go about eating what was on the plate would perplex even the brightest minds, it had been arranged that they would go to Pandemonium afterward.

Now here they were, on the coveted first floor, staring listlessly out at the other clients and being ogled in turn. Jace supposed he should have basked in the attention, lapped up their curiosity, not so long ago he had thrived on having all eyes on him. On this occasion he mostly felt like a cow staring out of a bier. Maybe he was just jealous because he knew the real attraction was not him but the suavely dressed, slick silver haired young man sitting opposite. A little fascination was to be expected, coming hand in hand with the way in which this table had been fussed over all night, to the degree that, unless Jace was mistaken, another couple had been impetuously chased away so they could have it. Nothing was too good for Jonathan, no request too unreasonable. After all, he was the son of the club's supplier. In fact, Jace doubted there were too many speakeasies in this city Jonathan could grace with his presence and not get special treatment; his father supplied them all. Realistically, there had to be some that fell beyond the Morgenstern sphere of influence, but they were few and far between, and Manhattan was their stronghold.

Blinking indolently, the Morgenstern present trailed his cigarette holder through the air again, as if it were some languid wand work. He had inserted another cigarette at some point while Jace's thoughts wandered and lit it. But, due to habit, he didn't bother to take a single drag. No, he opted to let it smoulder untouched. If it flickered out he would relight it and resume watching it burn itself out. In all the time Jace had known and watched it he had never actually smoked one of the damn things. Why, God only knew. Maybe just to demonstrate he could. It went beyond that, Jace had noted tonight too, when after ordering the most expensive thing on the menu Jonathan had nibbled at maybe a quarter of it. If he hadn't liked it, if there had been some sort of problem Jace doubted the chap would hesitate to send it back. He didn't strike him as the sort to bite his tongue and suffer in silence. Then he remembered reading of some great banquets of the past, where or when he had forgotten, when nobles had made a point of letting the food rot, again simply to show that they could afford to be wasteful.

Jace had to smirk at the instinctive disapproval such a notion roiled within him. It was not as if the trappings of wealth or overt displays of it were foreign to him, but would seem that he was, after it all, still a creature of the old world and old money. Apparently he had not entirely discharged the sensibilities that came on the coattails of that. Jace thought himself one of the more progressive sorts, but he could not deny the way his blood ran; ancient, English and- most likely- blue. When you hailed from a lineage that could, though not without difficulty and probably some fibbing, trace itself back to the Norman Conquest, you also inherited the tendency to sniff at those less well established. He had been from birth fed two fundamental truths, the foundations of the universe according to his grandfather: that monarchism was the only true, divinely approved mode of government and that money and class were not the same thing.

Whatever would his grandfather, the man who had never understood what would take any sane person further than London think of him now, in this den of inequity in the New World and its proud democracy, drinking with the son of a man who no-one had ever heard of ten years ago and worse, letting him buy the drinks. Somewhere, under the wet, Anglican soil of their village churchyard, the man was convulsing and somersaulting in his grave.

The smirk that lifted the corner of Jace's mouth snared Jonathan's attention. "Some joke you want to share?" His dark eyes glinted disconcertingly in the faint reddish light from the Victorian oil lamp planted between them.

Jace, who had always found the charm which intermittingly oozed off the other fellow unavoidably shallow and false, got the sense that Jonathan was fearful he was the source of the laughter. Personally, Jace didn't care for him at all and would gladly start a fight. Men who hadn't the pluck to puff on a cigarette should be easy picking. Then again, he was more eager not to cause any trouble for Alec. His friend has been too good to him to deserve that. So instead Jace smiled blithely and opted for honesty.

"It just occurred to me that those from my old life would not be best pleased with me if they knew where I was, what I was doing, and with whom."

The comment was met with a short gust of laughter. "Naturally."

So, the curiosity was mutual. To Jonathan, Jace was also intriguing specimen from the opposite side of the spectrum. The boy who had grown up in the sixteenth-century manor, the son of the Tory minister squinting at the boy who had grown up in a house built by some fool who had made a fortune out west in the oil rush to die of a heart attack soon after and raised by the same breed of self-made man.

Even so, acknowledging that did not mean Jace liked the way he was looked at, as if he were some particularly interesting phenomena on the other end of a microscope lens.

Jonathan appraised him over the rim of his drink, swirling the honey dark liquid within. "Alec tells me you're writing a book."

With a choked laugh Jace shifted in his seat and tossed his eyes away hastily across the other dimly lit tables, crossing and uncrossing his ankles, yanking at his necktie. He cleared his throat and made to shrug it off, "I am in the process of writing _something,_ " he granted.

Lies. Damned lies. That 'something' was merely an overflowing pile of paper in the bin by his desk, a much-cursed typewriter, a small notebook of blotted and scored out handwritten garbling and a head resembling a hornet's nest; with countless frenetic, fleeting ideas buzzing around in it. None of which he could ever commit more than few weeks to.

"A novel he told me." Even if he had wanted to talk about his ambitions, Jace could not pick someone he would seek to do it with less. He was pretentious and overbearing, of that there was no doubt, but he drew the line at spewing novel ideas to strangers. He was not that bothersome old sot. Not yet, anyway.

Another tug on the necktie. Jace frowned slightly and tried to disarm the other bloke as best he could, "At the moment it is more of a character study. A social commentary of sorts." He slurped in another mouthful of whiskey, appreciating all at once that he was not drunk enough for this.

"Tales of those you've encountered in New York, I was led to believe."

"Oh yes," Jace agreed, dryly, with a rolling shrug of his shoulders, "It teems with beautiful, desolate souls. Colourful sirens of girls who do all sorts of outrageous things like rouge their cheeks and want to vote and otherwise lead unsuspecting men astray. Their men who are brilliant and brave and changing the world one crate of smuggled spirits at a time." The biting sarcasm cannot have been lost on his host, for Jace had not gone to pains to disguise it. He could not help it, his literary striving, or-he may as well be honest even if only to himself- _struggling_ was a testy nerve. However, Jonathan chose to ignore his digging.

"Hmm. Yes." He chortled again and prised his slender, pale index finger, upon which a huge black jewel blinked, away from his glass to point it at Jace, "I figured you might be amusing."

That was all it took to send yet more unconsidered parched wit spinning off Jace's tongue, "Oh you'll find me quite the performing monkey."

"I do hope so. A social commentary, huh? Bootleggers and chorus girls, then?"

"It couldn't be true to life without them."

Another idle twitch to send a cascade of limp ash into the waiting tray, "And for the former I'm the case study, right?"

Blast Alec and his whole-truth-and-nothing-but-the-truth-so-help-me-god attitudes. Who did he think he was? More to the point, where did he think transparency was going to get him in his new line of work? Perhaps his new method of ingratiating himself with the Morgensterns was by laying down and upholding some sort of honour amongst thieves. That would be so like him.

"All names will be changed," Jace insisted smoothly, much more placidly than he felt.

"What a relief," Jonathan agreed every bit as blithely. How odd, Jace thought snidely, for him to have apparently found his match in one so different. A droll silence hung between them every bit as tangibly as the gauze of cigarette smoke that hung over everything in this establishment. Then Morgenstern offered a lazy, razored smile. "Well if you want a true to life account you may just have to get your hands a little dirty."

Jace lifted a bland smile in return, swallowing another generous mouthful of whiskey, years of cold mud and hot blood all threatening to clamour to the surface. "Then I suppose it's fortunate my hands weren't clean to begin with."

A short wolfish bark of laughter met that comment. Jonathan sliced his eyes back to the heaving dancefloor, and they sat on in silence for what felt like hours. The cigarette in Morgenstern's grip grew limp and with a last, weary splutter of orange light and a final weak wheeze of smoke it smouldered out. By the time the black eyes across the table were back on Jace's they were the most animated he had ever seen them. His nose twitched as if he had just caught a whiff of something delicious and a wide, vicious grin split his already striking face. "My appointment had just arrived."

That was the first Jace had been aware the other fellow had one and was left to blink with what he feared was inane shock at the pronouncement. Thankfully, he was spared the embarrassment of articulating that ignorance. "Here's your chance for your first real taste of New York."

It would be hours, days even, before it occurred to Jace that he'd had a choice to make in that moment. That he could have chosen another path. But at the time, under those heady, throbbing lights and faced with the still growing smug, savage excitement of the closest thing he had to a Muse, Jace Herondale did not think he made any decision at all. His companion jumped up to beckon with a ring bearing, scarred hand. Jace drained the dregs of his drink and that metaphorical little butterfly unfurled and fluttered its wings.

They descended the steps with ease, skirted the dancefloor and slipped out through a door that had not seemed to exist a moment before.

Jace followed Jonathan Morgenstern into the dark.

-x.x.x.x.x.x-

* * *

 **A/N: Thank you so much for reading! This has been sitting on my computer for a while now and I figured I might as well share. I needed a break from TFF and have of lost the run of it, so I've taken to jotting down this for the past while. So I guess it's kind of the side chick or, to employ an even worse analogy, the Jon Snow to my Stark baby, if that makes any sense whatsoever. Please let me know what you think so far! xx**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Welcome back! Thank you so much for the positive feedback and reviews, I was quite iffy about sharing this initially.**

 **I should probably include a trigger warning (pardon the pun) for the end of this chapter. The whole story hinges on the shooting in a way, so it had to be included.**

* * *

 **-2-**

Clary's first glimpse inside the most disreputable of Manhattan's speakeasys with the greatest reputation was startlingly underwhelming. In fact, behind the glamour and excitement front of house being backstage at Pandemonium wasn't drastically different to being backstage at her local theatre.

There was the same frenzy of costume changes, finding places, complaining of lights and bickering of co-stars. A sweating girl heaved a rack of dresses across Clary's path and almost mowed her down with it, a young man with a clipboard was yelling names and a countdown to their show time, and an Asian girl about Clary's age in a figure hugging, short, sparkling dress staggered past her, wrestling with the strap of a heeled show. She paused from her struggle only to take a swig from a hip flask Clary was willing to bet didn't hold apple juice. Springing out of the way of this latest obstacle earned her a filthy look and when it passed she was left loitering awkwardly in the middle of the floor chafing her numb hands.

She could see through a narrow door to wall of bright mirrors and a ledge teeming with cosmetics beneath it, lined the whole way down with girls in an array of daring, dazzling outfits. Clary longed to waltz over, to see what was in all those exotic pots of paints and powders. She wanted to hear the rapid babble of conversations, the hands flying animatedly as lips spilled the latest gossip and the raucous laughter most of it was met with. She ached to recognise the names, to grasp the darting inside jokes, code words and nicknames. Above all, she was caught in a fierce curiosity to wander over and see for herself what her face would look like in one of those mirrors. Would those intense, almost too-bright halos of light make her skin look waxy, ghostly or creamy? Make her hair raw carrot orange or polished copper? Could she pretend to look like the sort of girl who could sit under those lights every night she was young and beautiful? Would she even need to pretend?

Though the white-hot bulbs called to her, Clary's leaking shoes remained stuck to the grimy, glittery floor. She wasn't one of them. Not yet. Maybe not ever. She chased the last thought away as swiftly and thoroughly as she could, then was snatched out of coherent thought altogether as, with the click of heels and hiss of sequins, another girl sailed past her. Their shoulders collided and, given her assailant was much taller, the force knocked Clary clean off her feet. Or would have, had her hand not collided with a coat hanger. Rather that than her head, she tried to reassure herself, as the metal bit into her palm. By the time she righted herself and looked back over indignantly, the words of complaint melted off her lips like morning due under the blazing heat of the rising spring sun.

The girl who had bumped her had apparently not noticed her at all. One did not waste time or glares on mere mortals, no, not when one looked like a goddess. She had breezed over through the dressing room and over to the mirrors with exactly the kind of sophisticated grace and irresistible confidence Clary had been so desperate to possess herself only a minute ago. A space at the once crammed counter appeared instantly for her. The girl let her hand hover with a flourish over the mess of beauty utensils. Finally, with a feathery sigh, she plucked a lipstick up and began to dab more of the ruby colour onto her already perfectly luscious, rosy lips.

As she lifted her eyes, they met Clary's stunned ones in the mirror. She ought to look away, or blind herself maybe, like that poor hunter who had watched the beautiful maiden moon deity bathing- but Clary found she couldn't if she tried.

That girl was beautiful, probably the most beautiful woman she'd ever seen. Ebony black hair skimmed her jaw, liquid onyx and reed straight. Her eyes were huge, soulful and just as dark, the silvery blue and black make up surrounding them make them look all the darker, wider, more alluring. As timeless and untouchable as the night sky. She was less bejewelled than the other girls too, but remained the undoubted, coveted centrepiece. Bar the light dusting of glittered patterns across her shoulders and bodice and again at the brow across her forehead, the chiffon sweep of her snowy white dress shone clear and uninhibited. It also covered more skin than any of the costumes Clary had seen so far, not that it did not flatter the slender form it clung to in all the right places. It was also cut to afford a generous insight into the smooth, unblemished expanse of alabaster skin at her back.

Besides the obvious to envy, the kind of cool charm and poise Clary would sell her soul for poured off this girl. That and the fact her shoulder still stung from the collision with the silver studded sleeve of that dress was enough to make Clary want to hate her. Their eyes remained locked in the reflective glass, until the other girl lowered her lipstick. She replaced the lid briskly and Clary heard the snicker of the casing as it clicked shut.

"Who's the runt?"

It would be just too much to ask for the scales to be tipped a little more justly; to give this beauty a grating voice, wouldn't it? This sickeningly gorgeous girl even had a lovely voice, all deep and melodious. If she had the prime-time stage at Pandemonium it had to be even nicer when she sung.

Resenting that as she was, it took Clary a second to realise she had attention at last.

"Her? Dunno. Bust in here a while ago lookin' like a lost lamb. Think Raphael let her in." The sumptuously curved girl in the seat directly to the enchanting enquirer's left replied, sweeping at her lashes with a mascara wand.

"Well, Raphael would let anyone off the street who waved him some little green bills." The beautiful girl rotated slowly to look at Clary over her shoulder, letting her hand rest on her hip.

Her friend stopped fussing over her eyes and smirked in the mirror. "Sure, but this one don't look like she got two dimes to rub together."

The affronted newcomer tried to calm her pulse, soothe the scorched red of her cheeks and stand up straight. It looked as if she could either hover here mutely all night and give up the whole plan, or she could take this chance and speak up. Clary cleared her throat. "I'm looking for Magnus Bane."

The girl who had answered the first question- Curves Clary dubbed her mentally- laughed throatily, "Ain't we all."

"Oh can it, Maia. You don't have a dollar to your name either."

Curves- well Maia her name must be- grew sullen, "Well we don't all have your daddy to foot our bills."

Christ, Clary thought dizzily, this looked like it might be nasty. She buried the flickering instinct to bolt for cover and tried again, "If one of you could just point me in the direction of Mr Bane then-"

Unfortunately, they had gone back to ignoring her. Beauty was sniffing disdainfully and scraping a pair of earrings over the counter toward her, saying something scathing about how at least she knew who her father was and Clary was wondering if she should attempt to break it up or flee the scene entirely before it came to blows, when intervention took an unexpected form.

"There you are, Mi Bella!"

Was that man's suit… purple?

It took several astonished moments before Clary could peel her eyes off the boldly attired man kissing Beauty flamboyantly on either cheek long enough to note the other man hovering anxiously at his shoulder. He had his hands thrust in his pockets and his head lowered. When he did raise his face enough for Clary to get a decent appraisal she realised he looked uncannily like a masculine version of Beauty. Her brother, presumably, maybe even her twin.

"Ready for your big debut?" The mauve clad guy asked now, the fingers curled at Beauty's shoulders winking with many rings.

"Sure thing," the girl replied jauntily, but Clary detected a small nervous tremor running through her words.

"My darling, they are simply begging for you out there."

Oh yeah, Beauty was cracking a little, "That's a dirty lie Magnus, how can they? Nobody knows me."

Her companion lifted a deft finger and wagged it in front of her face, the bulging gold band perched below his knuckle giving it a distinctly pendulum effect, "Ah-ah baby. Nobody knows you yet, is all."

The addressee drew breath, but the possibility of another protest merging was squashed by that finger landing on her lips. "No whining, you are much top beautiful to whine."

Clary couldn't help but agree, though now she had been as good as told this man was Magnus Bane (a revelation that was far from soothing) she was impatient for his conversation to be over so she could step in and snare her new employer's attention while a little scrap of her courage remained.

Magnus drew back and flicked his gaze up and down Beauty once more, then unwound a satisfied smile. "Isabelle, you look heavenly. I'm assured you'll sound like an angel and move with just the right amount of devilish charm…"

Clary watched her brother, hands stuffed deep in his pockets, poorly disguise a scoff as a cough. By the time his sister's dangerously fierce gaze pinned him he was struggling to disguise the insincerity in his remorse.

Sensing that there was never going to be a good moment to make her introduction, and that loitering was only letting things slide to a worse time rather than a better, Clary inched forward and cleared her throat. "Mr Bane?"

"Darling the stage was made for you as much as you were made for it. Ignore Doubting Thomas! Now I implore you to go out there and shine!"

Isabelle had crossed her arms and was pouting, unconvinced, as her brother set about sheepishly muttering his apologies and accentuating much of what his companion had said, just with considerably less of the theatrical flair. Clary closed the gap a little more until she was hovering over Magnus Bane's shoulder and genuinely considering tapping it. She settled for one more pointed clearing of her airways and allowed another slice of her bubbling irritation pour into her tone, "MR BANE!"

Oh shoot. That was more than a slice.

A wide green-gold gaze swivelled to hers. She had a brief moment of twanging envy that his impeccable eye make-up was much better than any she could ever do before she landed with a thump in the reality of her situation.

"May I help you?" The proprietor enquired with cutting niceness.

"I uh. Ahem. Sorry to disturb, it's just I musta been here half an hour and nobody's been very helpful." Her voice sounded awfully pitchy, and the next time she found herself clearing her throat was in an attempt to grate her vocal chords down to a suitable decibel.

Magnus narrowed those perfectly smoky eyes and she caught a glint of what may have been recognition.

"And why, do tell, are you here in the first place?"

She shuffled her feet together and tried to stand up as straight as possible, but not before she noticed a little moat of trickled moisture seep out from her still-leaking shoes.

"I'm a seamstress. You wanted to hire one."

Bane lifted that long index finger once again. "I see. Well you-" he flicked a bemused appraisal over her bedraggled, damp form, "Will have to wait just a moment, biscuit. I have an act to introduce."

The trio dispersed then, Magnus floating away with a hand still hovering over the small of Isabelle's back, her brother shooting off to the side. Leaving Clary disbelieving that Magnus would come back at all. As it happened, under ten minutes later she found herself being indeed ushered into the main office.

It was less extravagant than she would have expected; a little square room that had once belonged to the company manager and was now the rather sobering proof that for the man lounging opposite her, this speakeasy was a livelihood, not an escape. She hadn't known him long, but she suspected no room would ever be able to contain Magnus Bane's personality. Nonetheless, there was strikingly little of it in here. The only trace was the massive desk, a gleaming mahogany structure that would not have been out of place in the Oval Office. His fingers drummed along the sleek, oil-dark surface, those rings looped around them twinkling jauntily over at Clary and making it hard for her to fix her attention on his face.

The room was exceptionally ordered, the stacks of paper across the table top were layered in distinct piles. However, the walls were lined with shelves containing not ledgers or accounts, but copies of novels in an array of languages, cookery books and nautical manuals, even a guide on good housewifery. She guessed it would be kind of stupid to keep all his documents relating to the running of the illicit business right here. If the place was raided and you had tallies of every drop of liquor you'd bought right here, you were screwed.

"Smoke?" He offered. Clary shook her head and voiced a polite refusal. Much as she didn't want to look the supreme goody two shoes, she also figured that the spluttering that was sure to follow her attempts to look a practised smoker would be more detrimental to her I-can-handle-myself persona.

Instead, she smoothed down her hair with what she hoped was believable nonchalance while Magnus lit up without her.

"I was seeking a seamstress."

She tried to beam, "Lucky for you I am a seamstress."

"Honey, I don't hire any old Bob or Sue from the streets. Given my line of business, I can't afford to. I handpick everyone who works for me."

The reverberation of a particularly sexy, slow, soulful beat struck up out in the club and thrummed through the walls. Clary longed to slip out and see Isabelle's performance for herself, she was itching to hear it properly and even more desperate to watch how she performed. How she worked the stage, the audience. How she ensured that people wanted to see that pretty face again. But there were more pressing matters to attend to, she reminded herself, fidgeting in her seat. Business and then fun.

"Sure, but you did handpick me. I got your note right here, sir!"

Eagerly, with a touch of triumph, she produced the little note that had been carefully folded in her pocket. Already the ink had faded from fingers having run over it again and again and the paper was severely wrinkled from the countless folding and unfolding, but it was still distinctly legible.

"That's me, Miss Fray." She tapped the addressed name with as much feigned confidence as she possessed.

Bane threw back his head and laughed.

He rubbed at his forehead before returning his gaze to her. "Uh-huh, tell it to Sweeney. I think you and I know damn well that note was for Ms _Jocelyn_ Fray. Not her brash little bunny of a daughter."

"Save it," He sliced through her protest, "I knew who you were pretty much the second you opened your mouth. You're her spitting image Clary." He snickered a little, "And you've got her spine, coming here."

"Well," Clary pressed on, wagering she had nothing at all to lose, "She's Mrs Jocelyn Garroway now. I'm the only Miss Fray there is. And I'm just as handy with a needle."

"Oh, I don't doubt that. I also don't doubt she'd throw a fit if she knew you were here."

"I'm not a baby. I know what I'm getting into. I'm a good worker. Gimme a chance Mr Bane."

The orange smouldering end of the cigarette that faced her glimmered and waned in sympathy.

"I've known your mother nearly ten years. She's done me a lot of favours in that time and vice versa. I also know how fierce she is about you. Soon as I set up for real in the liquor business she cut all ties. I wasn't expecting a response from her, I was just plain desperate when I left that note. There's no way she'd have you caught up in this and out of respect for her, I won't either. Besides, that woman is a true Arachne. If you are her equal with a needle and thread then there's nowhere wouldn't hire you. So go and get someplace respectable, someplace that pays well. Lord and Taylor, Macy's. Goddamn Fifth Avenue. Or gets some senator's wife or banker's daughter to hire you as a lady's maid. Do something worthwhile with your youth and pluck."

Clary could have screamed. She felt he didn't mean to be patronising, but that did nothing to sweeten the blow. She was nearly twenty years of age and she was sick of being treated like a two-year-old. This guy had less than a decade on her and he was still determined to talk down, like she was some dumb kid. She _knew_ what working in a speakeasy would mean. She also knew that they and everything they represented proved that the world was changing and she was ready to change with it. She had plans, big plans, and making sure the hem on girl's like Isabelle didn't trail was just the very first step in making them real. But how in hell was she supposed to make anything real when even people like Bane, who welcomed all the misfits and rebels of the world, kept shutting doors on her? This was her big night and her shot as much as it was for the girl who was now wheeling into a more upbeat number out on that stage.

She tried once more, "Mr Bane, you said you were desperate."

"I mean it when I say no, Clary." He looked at her with pitiful amusement, "It isn't all glamour and gaity. Even the best night is followed by the worst hangover. Trust me, I'm doing you a favour."

"But I-"

He pushed to his feet, scuffed out his ciggy and gave her what was probably meant as a comforting squeeze to the shoulder as he passed her by, "I'd give your regards to your mother, but I reckon conveying them would only open a whole line of troublesome questioning for you." He paused in the doorway, tapping another cigarette against the lid of its silver case, "Speaking of any sort of questioning, surely you grasp that it's the best for all concerned if you keep this whole night to yourself. All the best, Clary Fray, I do mean that." The he concluded with a final touch of world-weary advice, "Think about a new pair of shoes and avoid the cheapest liquor- it always does more harm than good. Now scram."

-x.x.x.x.x.x-

* * *

Having spent the best part of four years in the trenches, Jace was no stranger to the dark or the damp, but loitering in the alley behind Pandemonium he wasn't sure he'd ever been so bloody _cold._ Just breathing in the frigid air gave the impression chips of ice were hewing down into his lungs. A situation not helped in the slightest by the fact that the mist of drizzle that has first been in the air when they'd stepped out had now strengthened to a proper downpour. Naturally, the rain was arctic cold too, and had managed to worm its way into crevices of clothing he hadn't even known existed. There was a particularly chilly and consistent stream sliding down from his hair and slipping between his collar, until it felt as though someone had slapped a freezing hand to the back of his neck and wouldn't remove it.

It also meant that Jonathan was in a truly foul mood. The fact that his client was being especially uncooperative was just worsening his temper.

"I'll tell you one more time-" he growled out, the set of his jaw suggesting it was an effort to stop grinding his teeth long enough to get the words out.

"Look, I can't tell ya what I don't know. I ain't got 'em. I don't know who told Blackwell, but it sure wasn't me."

Jonathan grinned, and it struck both his companions that as more a case of baring teeth than anything. His right hand sunk into his pocket, which if it was anything like Jace's was probably something of a swimming pool, and he scratched his chin with his left. He lifted his shoulders in a brief shrug, scattering the row of raindrops studding them like black pearls in the process. "I don't believe you."

Jace rather felt he did possess such belief. If a man were going to lie to Morgenstern it would surely be worth his while to fabricate something, rather than throwing out flat, stubborn ignorance. At a man like Jonathan and on this wretched night, no less.

All the same, Jace was far from prepared for how ugly this was about to get.

He couldn't follow the argument other than grasping it wasn't getting anywhere. Their mutually frustrating conversation contained too many unfamiliar names, locations and what he hoped were euphemisms for Jace to make sense of what it was really about. On the other hand, he could recognise that the obstinately dumb chap was pressing further and further into dangerous territory. He didn't need to know Morgenstern well to decode the sharpening anger in his gaze, or the inverted dimple fluttering in his cheek every time he pulled flesh from the inside of his mouth between his teeth.

"Listen, they had to be held over. Blackwell thought so, we did. C'mon Jon you know how it is. We just take orders."

Trying to unearth a familiarity with his already close to irate boss was the wrong move. But not the damning one.

"Exactly. You just take the orders. Apparently you can't even manage that anymore."

Internally, Jace launched into a stream of cursing. Metres away was a warm seat with his name on it, a glass beside it. Here he was, stuck on the edge of an argument that had nothing to do with him, being utterly ignored instead of warming his bones and watching Isabelle, who- if the muted treble of her set winding its way out from the cracking brickwork was anything to judge by, might actually be rather good. He wagered an experimental step backwards, letting his shoulder skim the slippery wall, wondering if he really could just sink into the shadows. He could just slip away. He was never going to write this novel anyway. And more importantly, this late into the night he should be drunk.

"Yeah, Blackwell said the whole batch wasn't to go on. Some had to be held over for some other guy in some other location. Said that was the new plan. I don't know who or where. Like I told you before. This other fella was going to take charge for the rest. There is something fishy about the whole thing but I don't-"

"What?" The demand sliced through the night, just as the song changed inside. A hitch in the rhythm, and the new, darker cadence took hold.

"I said it is fishy." The ill-omened informant reiterated, blinking up at them through the sheets of trembling moisture.

The next sequence of events would play over in Jace's mind for days and weeks to come in slow motion, yet when they played out in reality they did so very quickly.

A sharp yell, from Morgenstern, a defiant squeal from the other guy. Cut short by three, decisive cracks of sound.

On the first bullet the man before him fell, upon the impact of the second his whole body writhed, just once. By the time the third blasted into the night there was no further movement.

Jace had been to war, he had watched hundreds of men take fatal blows. He had dealt out more than a few himself. He knew the man was dead with the first twitch of the trigger, but found himself stuck to the spot, in mute, gushingly helpless horror watching two more shots… And a stranger's slackening face lolling to the side; a dark, grim pillow of liquid pooling out around it…

His eyes ripped away at last, hopelessly shifting back to Jonathan, who was watching the grisly scene with that same, violent, unrelenting fury locking his face into an unforgiving mask. His arm was still extended rigidly, the first drops beginning to shudder down off the barrel of the gun.

That sluggish, hideous stain advanced across the gravel toward Jace, sliding between the stones, too slow to be water, too thick to be ink.

Much as any mind may long to, there was no erecting an innocent pretence to cushion this.

Frozen in their awful little tableau, Jace would have thought the whole world had halted with them. That he was stuck in this terrible bubble and the rest of the world plodded on untouched. The fourth sound, the one which irrevocably shattered that illusion, was somehow therefore the most shocking of all.

That choked, horrified yelp. Then the garbled scream.

It yanked Jace back from his shock, as surely as a pulled leash, waking him from one nightmare and plunging him into another, more realistic one. Without any command from his mind, Jace whirled to face the unseen, unexpected spectator. One tiny, white hand was pressed to the barely ajar side stage door. The fingers on the other were screening a mouth slumped open in blank horror. Against the yellowish light tumbling out into the street the petite form, half a silhouette, seemed all the starker, all the more solid.

Suddenly his eyes were as stuck to hers as surely as his feet were to the pavement.

Behind him, Jonathan swore.

There was another click.

Good God no.

The words must have sprung out from his mind and to his lips, for next Jace knew he was lurching forward, hands flailing and body sailing in front of the gun.

Gracelessly, stumbling as his stride was broken and fumbling fingers batted the barrel aside, Jonathan reluctantly drew away.

More colourful swears in a more feminine voice and another clatter drew them back to the rabbit in the headlights. Breaking his spell must have broken hers too, for the girl's survival instinct struck and she finally swung away, stumbling back through the doorway equally as gracelessly and slamming the door behind her with hasty difficulty.

Jace's hands tumbled back to his sides uselessly, feeling much too light while the rest of his body seemed much too heavy. Jonathan at last lowered the gun, an exasperated, stilted movement. His left hand he pushed back into his hair, shoving his fingers through his sodden fringe. Like a cat trying and failing to smooth its bristled fur.

"You stupid bastard!" He spat, though Jace could just have easily uttered that same sentiment in the reverse direction. Having tucked the gun away, thank Christ, he transferred his hand to Jace's arm, where it tightened in a bony noose of astounding strength. Instinctively, he strove to shove it off nonetheless, becoming aware that the music had stopped with gunshots and the clamour inside was now one of unsettled, anxiously raised voices and stampeding feet. Jonathan persisted in tugging him away, out of the alley and back towards the main entrance with an insistent speed and set expression that suggested fight rather than flight.

"What- I don't- I'm not?"

Finally, the dreadful epiphany dawned as they rounded the corner and were met with a thrumming thoroughfare. In the doorway Magnus Bane stood firm, arms raised and voice lifted with them as he struggled to reassure and hold back an exodus.

"We're not going to find her in all this." Jace hissed, a prayer and a plea.

Black eyes scanned his, the hot urgency and cold ruthlessness there sending Jace's heart toppling to his stomach like a penny down a well.

His companion's hand floated over his right pocket meaningfully, and his mouth jerked warningly to a smirk. "Oh, you better start hoping we do, John Bull."

-x.x.x.x.x.x.x-

* * *

 _ **A/N: Oh boys. What have you gotten yourselves into.**_

 _ **In response to the question, let me state for the record that Jonathan and Clary are not related in this fic.**_

 _ **On another note, since I don't believe there's any point in lying, I'm not going to propose an update schedule because I know I wouldn't stick to it anyway...**_

 _ **Other than that, thank you so much for reading as always :) x**_


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